by Cat Adams
“What?” That made no sense at all. They were evidence.
“Rob Douglass refused to give a statement or press charges. One of our best detectives tried to push him, but it backfired. Douglass killed himself in the hospital last night.”
“He what?”
“Suicided. There’s no case. The brass decided that we don’t have enough security to hang on to artifacts like yours unless we absolutely have to, and they don’t want to risk a diplomatic incident. So, if you want your things, you can come get them.”
“Wait—he had the ring too?”
“Yes.” She didn’t elaborate, and her tone let me know that she didn’t want to say anything more about it. So I dropped it and asked something else instead. “Do I get them from you?” It wasn’t as stupid a question as it sounded. The police brass tended to use Alex as a liaison with me—sort of a siren filter. It was very handy for them, though that didn’t keep them from bitching mightily about our “connection.”
“Nah, the property department. But don’t come until afternoon. They’re still working on the paperwork. In the meantime, I’m going to be out at a crime scene. Someone found a body. Female.
“The coroner’s guessing she’s in her midforties. She’s been beaten and tortured extensively, so facial recognition is a no go.” Alex’s voice was icy calm, but I could sense an underlying rage. Whatever had been done to the woman was bad enough that it was getting to her, but she was enough of a professional to hide it. I could understand that. I’ve done the same thing, more than once.
She continued, “There were signs of old injuries, quite severe. She would’ve been paralyzed from the waist down.”
“You’re thinking it’s Abigail Andrews?”
“Yeah. We’re sending the DNA out to see if it matches anything on record, but that’ll take a few days. In the meantime, I wanted to warn you to be careful. Things have escalated.”
“I sure wish I’d been able to find the suited guy or the guy in the hologram.” I had a brainstorm. “Maybe I should call Bruno and John. There can’t be that many people capable of that kind of spell. I mean, I’ve never even heard of anything like it. Bet they’d know who to talk to.”
“I already did. They don’t know of anyone, and no one they checked with does either.”
“Oh.” Okay, I felt dumb. Of course she’d thought of that. She was a detective, and a good one.
“Celia, are you okay? You sound … odd.”
My temper started to rise. “I just got out of the hospital, Alex. Those guys deliberately left me to burn. You saw what they did to one of their own people. Now you’re telling me they tortured a disabled woman to death. So, no, I’m not all right. Not even close.” I was snarling at her. I didn’t mean to. It wasn’t even her I was mad at. I was mad at the car rental guy for staring, at the bastards who did this to me, and at myself for still being so shaky—so damned scared.
“Sorry.”
“No. I’m sorry.” I sighed. “I shouldn’t take it out on you. It’s just these guys are so—”
“Brutal, vicious?” Alex suggested.
“Exactly. I don’t scare easily, Al, but these guys scare me.”
“Good,” she said firmly. “They should. They’re seriously bad news, and I intend to see that they’re taken off of the streets for a very, very long time.”
Her words gave me an idea, one that might make me sound like a complete nutcase. But now that the thought had come to me, I had to ask. “Alex, the link you gave me only has photos of criminals who aren’t currently incarcerated, right?”
“That’s right. There’s no point in having you wade through thousands of people who couldn’t have done it because they’re locked up.”
“But I spoke to a hologram. The boss wasn’t actually there. Maybe there’s a reason why.”
She made no reply, but I could tell she was thinking about it. I pressed on.
“I know, if he’s a mage and he’s incarcerated, he shouldn’t be able to work magic. That might explain why nobody’s heard of this hologram spell. He can’t advertise it without getting caught.”
“I’ll run Alyssa’s sketch through the system, see what comes up.” She sounded doubtful, and tired, but I knew she’d do it.
“Thanks, Alex.”
“You’re welcome.” She paused. “And Celia, seriously, be careful.”
Everyone seemed to be telling me that. You’d think I was disaster-prone or something. Still, it was good advice. “I plan to.”
After we hung up, I thought about what I’d just learned. I hadn’t liked Abigail Andrews, but I wouldn’t have wished a death like hers on my worst enemy.
Most of what she’d told me had been a lie. I knew that. But most really good liars base their tales on the truth. Alex would check the prisons as I suggested. But would she tell me if she found Hologram Guy? Maybe—then again, maybe not.
Twenty-two years. Abigail had said the man had been in prison for twenty-two years. She’d also said that he’d been the one who’d injured her in the first place.
Rising, I slathered on sunscreen and armed up. I debated whether or not to take along a pair of one-shots filled with holy water. Bats only come out at night and I didn’t think I’d be gone that long, but holy water is useful for a lot of things, like checking for demons, shattering illusions, and cleaning away corruption. Better to have it and not need it than the other way around. I slid the little squirt guns into their loops inside my jacket, grabbed my purse, sunglasses, and keys to the rental car. It was time to go to work.
* * *
The SUV was cherry red with tinted windows. It drove like a tank but I couldn’t fault the visibility. I felt like I was a mile above the ground and had the pleasure of looking down on just about every other vehicle on the road. It had a killer sound system, built-in GPS, and that chemical and leather new-car smell. I turned the radio to my favorite station, cranked up the sound and the AC, and was on my way.
Errands: they breed like rabbits, always take longer than you want them to, and are generally annoying as hell. Still, it was nice enough to be up and around that I didn’t feel too annoyed.
I started by picking up a phone—with Bluetooth. That way I could drive whatever new car I bought and use the phone hands-free. I didn’t need the earpiece for this beast—it had a built-in system. Good thing, too: I could understand now what Dawna meant when she said that driving the Hummer took her full concentration. Once I had the phone I began checking the rest of the items off my list.
I needed research done—more than Dawna could do in a limited amount of time—but I knew Anna wouldn’t let me into the university library in my current state. Been there. Done that. Wasn’t fun the first time. So I called her. She grumbled but agreed to look up the information I wanted and send it to me in an e-mail. Said to check my box in about two hours.
My next stop, Santa Maria de Luna PD’s property department.
Alex had said the police did not want to keep my knives or ring. That might be true, but they were not going to part with them easily, and not without lots and lots of paperwork: boring, tedious, meticulous paperwork.
That one stop killed most of my two hours of waiting time. I was so glad to get out of there with my little bag of goodies.
I was very tempted to just slip on the ring and strap on the knives. But I didn’t. They needed to be checked for trap spells, then cleaned, blessed, and generally made safe before I could use them again. I knew just the guy to do it, too.
I found myself smiling, I had a perfectly legitimate reason to go see Bruno. And hey, it was lunchtime. Maybe we could head over to La Cocina for a bite to eat. (Okay, in my case, not a bite, but at least a smoothie, which counts, right?)
The good news: I got to see him and he agreed to make sure my stuff was usable.
The bad news: he had a big faculty luncheon. He offered to ditch it, but I turned him down and gave him a good-bye/thank you kiss to remember.
As I was walking out the door he
called out, “Celie, try to stay out of trouble.”
It was an exact echo of John’s words. I turned, intending to say something in response, then stopped. I am disaster-prone. I don’t look for trouble, but it finds me. Nothing I could say would change that.
15
There was a line of people waiting for tables at La Cocina. I settled down on the bench under the awning and used my new phone to call Dawna. I figured I could catch up on messages while I waited.
“Hello?” Dawna’s voice was pleasant but questioning, not exactly a surprise since she wouldn’t recognize this number on caller ID.
“It’s me. Sorry I didn’t call sooner. I had to get a new phone and run a couple of errands. What’s up?”
“That’s right, you lost your phone! I forgot.” Now she sounded like her bright and bubbly self. “You’ve got like a dozen e-mails and several messages. And we have a problem.”
What else is new? “What is it this time?”
“Well, I got a frantic call on the business line from a woman who said she was Abigail Andrews’s daughter, Michelle. She said that her mom was supposed to meet her at the airport and didn’t show up. Michelle got really scared and checked with the police, who told her that Abigail was dead and then asked her all kinds of what she said were ‘strange questions.’
“Apparently the cops also told Michelle that the last person to talk to Abigail was a local bodyguard. Evidently Michelle has been going through the phone book. She found us by process of elimination and is desperate to meet with you. She’s grieving and angry and really, seriously confused. I told her I couldn’t tell her anything and she just lost it. Started crying really hard and then hung up on me.”
“I don’t suppose she gave you a number at any point?”
“No, but I got it from caller ID. Do you want it?”
“E-mail it to me?”
“Sure. Are you going to call her?”
I thought about it. I wasn’t thrilled with the idea. For one thing, it was ethically squishy. Yes, Michelle’s mother hadn’t actually hired me, but confidentiality is important in my business. On the other hand, Abigail Andrews was dead and Michelle Andrews might be in danger. After all, Abigail had wanted to hire someone to protect her daughter, not herself. If something happened to Michelle because I wasn’t willing to talk with her, I’d blame myself. Decisions, decisions.
“Celia?” Apparently I was taking too long to answer.
“Just thinking. I’ll probably call. Not that I actually know anything.” That wasn’t quite true. I knew that the people we were dealing with were lethally dangerous and highly creative—masters of mayhem, as it were. I didn’t have a clue what they wanted or why, other than me out of the picture. Which meant that meeting with Michelle was a seriously bad idea.
“Well, be ready to get an earful,” Dawna warned.
“Like mother, like daughter,” I answered sourly.
“Sorry.”
“Not your fault.”
“Actually, it kind of is.” Dawna sighed. “I was the one who was supposed to meet with Abigail Andrews in the first place.”
“Yeah, well, it’s better you didn’t.” Painful as the burns had been, I’d survived. I’d healed. I could survive more damage than Dawna. I didn’t say that out loud, though. That would be too close to admitting Chris was right, that she wasn’t safe working with me.
“Still. Sorry.”
“Apology accepted.”
We exchanged good-byes and ended the call. I was glad to see that I had nearly reached the front of the line, because I needed food. When I first got turned, several years earlier, I’d had to drink something nourishing every four hours without fail or risk all kinds of bloodlusty madness. If I really was back at square one on the bat control, I was past due.
None of the coeds looked like lunch, which was good. But I was getting grumpy, which was not. Finally it was my turn. Barbara greeted me with a huge hug. “You’re back! You’re okay!” She held me at arm’s length, looking me up and down, her eyes narrowing as she took in the hair and the drawn-on eyebrows that showed above my sunglasses. “You are okay, right? Did you get the flowers?”
“Getting there.” I smiled, to take any sting out of the words. “And yes, they’re gorgeous. Thank you so much.”
“You’re welcome. Are you by yourself or meeting someone?”
“By myself. I need to catch up on some reading, but I’m starving.”
“One Sunset Smoothie coming up. And, I assume, a margarita?” I nodded. Barbara knows me so well. She led me through the cheerfully noisy main dining area, asking over her shoulder where I’d like to sit. As we passed through the room, I overheard discussions about upcoming parties, past dates, work, and classes. I didn’t hear any comments about my appearance. Of course I wasn’t the most oddly dressed person in the restaurant, not by a long shot, even with the hair.
I chose a table in the corner near the patio doors. It was out of direct sunlight, but there was enough ambient light that I could read the screen of my phone without straining or resorting to vampire vision.
Setting the phone on the table, I opened my e-mail. Sure enough, Anna had come through, sending an e-mail with a large attached file. I settled in and started to read.
I’d managed to cover most of the basics when she entered.
There are people who can change the nature of a room just by walking into it. She was one of them. Every eye in the place turned to her when she stepped through the door—including mine. She was probably in her late teens or early twenties and an absolute knockout. Petite, her black hair hung in natural curls almost to her waist. Her eyes were large, dark, and doelike, framed by thick black lashes. She had the warm brown skin of a Latina and curves that weren’t concealed by the rather dowdy dress she wore. Conversations that had paused at her entrance stuttered back to life as she scanned the room, looking for someone.
An instant later she began striding purposefully toward my table, her face taking on lines of grim determination.
Oh, crap.
She stopped a few inches away from me. This close I could see she’d been crying. I could also see her body was actually quivering, with nerves, anger, or some other emotion.
“You’re Celia Graves.”
There was no point denying the fact. I’m pretty recognizable, what with the über-pale skin and the fangs. I’d thought the new ’do and Goth-style clothing might confuse the issue a little, but apparently not. “Yes. Can I help you?”
She pulled out the chair and sat down without an invitation. Barbara gave me a quizzical look from where she stood by a nearby table. I just shrugged. I didn’t know who my guest was, but she didn’t seem the type to start trouble.
“My mother met with you the other day. I want to know why.”
Ah. This had to be Michelle Andrews. I shouldn’t have been surprised to see her after my conversation with Dawna, but I’d hoped to have a bit of time to figure out what the hell I intended to do before I actually had to speak with the woman. I kept my expression calm and pleasant. My insides, however, were shaking nearly as badly as she was. La Cocina is very public, and I’m known to hang out here. If the bad guys were watching the place …
When I spoke, I made my voice sound ever-so-slightly bored. Which I wasn’t. At all. I was pretty much terrified. Hologram Guy had made his point, loud and clear. I decided to play dumb. If I let her take the lead I might learn something useful. “Really? Why don’t you ask your mother?”
“My mother was supposed to meet my plane this morning. When she didn’t, I went to the police station. They told me she’d been abducted.
“They found a body they think is hers. They even asked me for the name of her dentist so that they can check dental records.” Tears trailed gracefully down her perfect cheeks. Her voice quavered.
“I can’t believe it. It can’t be.” She hid her face in her hands, her body jerking with the sobs she couldn’t hold back any longer. It took her several minutes to regain
her composure. All the while, the restaurant’s customers either stared openly or tried desperately to pretend nothing was wrong.
Michelle dropped her hands onto the table and pleaded with me. “Please. Please. You have to help me. The police were kind, but they didn’t tell me anything. They mostly asked questions, and the few things they did say didn’t make any sense. But I overheard someone saying that my mother had tried to hire a bodyguard. I’ve been calling everyone in the book from here to L.A.”
“What makes you think I’m the right bodyguard?” It was neither an admission nor a denial.
“I met with a man at Miller and Creede. He suggested I speak with you. Please. You have to tell me. Why did my mother want protection? What was she afraid of?”
I closed my eyes, trying to decide what to tell her. If Abigail had been alive, I couldn’t have said anything due to ethical considerations. But damn it, she’d wanted to hire someone to protect this woman, the one sitting across from me. Michelle was in very real danger and she didn’t have a freaking clue.
God, I wanted that drink.
As if on cue, Barbara came to the table with a tray containing a pair of water glasses, the smoothie, and a great big beautiful glass of frozen alcoholic goodness. I swear I wanted to kiss her. I took the margarita glass from her hand and drank most of it in a single pull as she set the little paper napkins on the table, followed by the water glasses. Then I took polite sips of the smoothie—I didn’t want Michelle to think I was a barbarian.
Barbara gave me a wide-eyed look, her brows climbing high enough to disappear beneath her bangs. But she didn’t say anything to me; instead, she turned to my guest. “Can I get you something, miss?”
The young woman toyed with her water glass, then picked up her napkin and wiped her eyes and nose. Speaking in a voice that was soft and a little hoarse, she asked for the special of the day and a Coke.
Barbara moved off to fill the order and I set about sipping my smoothie before the alcohol from the margarita kicked in.
Michelle Andrews sat there, waiting silently for me to make up my mind about what to do with her. She didn’t seem to have anything personal against me, just seemed to be generally upset. Still, if I was going to speak with her for more than a few minutes, I’d better check to make sure she was protected.